“Yes, sir. Malcolm Stratton is the soul of honour—a gentleman who would have laid down his life sooner than cause pain to the lady he loves with all his heart.”
“God bless you for that, Mr Guest!” cried Myra—catching the young man’s hand as she spoke—in a broken voice, which she fought hard to render calm.
“Bah! Heroics! Come away, Myra. Of course he’ll talk big for his friend. But where is he? Why has he insulted us all like this?”
“Heaven only knows, sir,” said Guest solemnly. “Forgive me for speaking as I do before you, Mrs Barron, but at the cost of alarming you I must take Malcolm’s part. I saw him this morning at his chambers, ready almost to come on. He placed Miss Perrin’s telegram in my hands—about the bouquet—and begged me to see to it at once—to take the flowers to the hotel, and meet him at the church.”
“Yes—yes!” cried Myra eagerly, and her large, dark eyes were dilated strangely.
“I did not pay any heed to it then, for I attributed it to anxiety and nervous excitement.”
“What, Mr Guest?” cried Myra piteously.
“His appearance, Mrs Barron. There was a peculiar wild look in his eyes, and his manner was strange and excited. Some seizure must have been coming on.”
“Yes, yes; it is that,” said Myra hoarsely, and she hurriedly tore off gloves, veil, and ornaments.
“He was quite well last night,” said the admiral scornfully. “It was a trick to get rid of you. I’ll never believe but what it is all some deeply laid plan.”